


Incompatible with Long-Term Relationships

by tellywhich



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drama & Romance, Fluff and Angst, John Watson's Blog, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Season/Series 01
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 15:53:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11947572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tellywhich/pseuds/tellywhich
Summary: So, what really happened after Sarah and John broke up? Read this and find out.





	1. May Day

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FinAmour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/gifts).



> Guess what, dears? This is my first smut piece. Please be nice to me. :-)
> 
> This story was inspired in part by a post and comments from John's blog. The post is [here](http://www.johnwatsonblog.co.uk/blog/01may). I have no idea what the hell was going on with the timestamps at the end of the comments. For this fic, I chose to follow the order of the comments, rather than the timestamps.
> 
> Thanks to my beta [snycock](http://archiveofourown.org/users/snycock/pseuds/PsychGirl) for all the help and support. Go read her stuff if you're hungry for some delicious S4 fix-its, romance, smut, and good old-fashioned mysteries.

John took the stairs up to the flat two at a time, the takeaway from the Chinese down the street hitting the side of his leg with every step. It felt startlingly hot through the fabric of his trousers, and he hoped the wonton soup hadn't spilled in the bag. Of course, Sherlock had refused to actually go to the restaurant, not on May Day, when the streets were crawling with people high on adrenaline, anger, and any number of other chemicals. 

“You brought dumplings?” Sherlock asked, just as John walked through the door.

“You called the order in, Sherlock.”

Sherlock was slouched in his chair, a pile of books by his elbow, one open in his lap. Without bothering to look up from his reading, he reached out a languid hand, summoning John over with the slightest wiggle of his index finger.

“Mmm, I did. Bring them over?”

John ignored him and walked into the kitchen, loudly pulling two plates from the dish rack and dropping them on the counter. Sherlock sighed and rose from his seat, coming over to stand next to him, slightly too close, as usual.

John shifted away, busying himself with untying the knot on the plastic bag of food. Sherlock grumbled impatiently, reaching over John's arms to tear the bag open with long fingers.

“Well,” John muttered, his shoulders tensing. “That's one way to do it.”

“Efficiency is key, John,” Sherlock replied, wincing as he lifted the plastic jug of soup out of the bag and dropped it on the counter. “That's nearly scalding. Take care not to burn your mouth.”

“I'll be fine,” John snapped. He bristled under Sherlock's searching glance, staring down at the counter, unmoving, until Sherlock dropped the box of dumplings onto his plate and returned to his chair.

John sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. He hadn't meant to snap at his flatmate. But it had only been a week since he and Sarah broke up. And only a few weeks since he was stuffed into a Semtex vest and carted off to face Sherlock at the pool. He took a deep breath.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?” The reply came too quickly.

John glanced out to the sitting room, where Sherlock was giving the appearance of being engrossed in his book again, the plate of dumplings balanced precariously on the stack of tomes by his chair.

He wasn't even sure what had gone wrong with Sarah. Hell, with anything in his life lately. The trip to New Zealand was a disaster. Sarah lashed out at him near the end, screaming that Sherlock was _always_ there, even thousands of miles away, when she thought she could finally have John all to herself.

Losing her hurt, even though John had to admit he had always kept one foot out the door. He wanted to talk about it, but certainly Sherlock wasn't the person for that particular job. So he'd written a short blog post earlier that day, hoping that some friend (if he had any left after Sherlock) would reach out and offer support.

“What is it, John?” Sherlock prompted.

“What?” John blinked. “Oh...I'm sorry I snapped at you.”

“Oh,” Sherlock murmured, still not looking up from his book. “I didn't notice.”

 _Liar._ John stared at him intently. He tried to shake himself free of the mood, but everything felt all wrong. _Damn it. What is it about this man that demands so much of my attention?_

Even now, he wanted to do whatever it took to draw Sherlock back out.

“They gave us two fortune cookies,” he said, turning to root through the torn bag.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, finally looking up to meet John's eyes. “Oh?”

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

John grinned. “You know exactly what.”

Sherlock grinned back, tossing his book aside and springing from his chair.

“Yours will say...” he closed his eyes, waving his hands with a flourish. “There is nothing new under the sun. It has all been done before.” He opened his eyes, looking at John expectantly.

John stared back at him. “You _actually_ keep fortunes in there? Isn't that sort of-”

“Are you going to open the cookie, or shall I?” Sherlock's eyes were dancing with excitement.

John paused, tilting his head slightly. “Ah, let's see here.” He tore the plastic off of the first cookie, breaking it open and automatically handing one half to Sherlock. He popped the other half in his mouth, chewing loudly as he flattened out the little strip of paper, his heart skipping several beats. He blinked, glancing at Sherlock in amazement. “How could you possibly...”

Sherlock smiled smugly. “That was the same fortune that you got the first time.”

“First time?”

“After the cabbie?”

John laughed, the memories of that night washing over him. “Oh. Of course. How could I forget?”

“ _Dinner?”_

“ _Starving.”_

There was a long pause, their eyes meeting.

“Okay. Well,” John said, forcing himself to look away. “Lucky guess, then. What's yours going to say?”

Sherlock chuckled. “It will say the same thing.”

“What are the odds of that?” John frowned.

“Just open it.”

“And if you're wrong, you'll do the dishes?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Fine.”

John tore the plastic open, handing Sherlock the first half of the cookie again, smiling at the sound of crunching. He pulled the strip of paper from the broken shell, crumbling the rest of the cookie into smaller pieces in his haste.

“Let your fantasies unwind...”

Sherlock scoffed. “That's not even a fortune.”

“Don't even,” John said, laughing. “Don't try to distract me from the fact that you got it wrong.”

Sherlock sneered. “That's not what it says at all.” He lunged forward, snatching the piece of paper from John's fingers.

“Hey!” John staggered sideways.

Sherlock glanced at the paper, his frown deepening, and then met his eyes.

“But this is not a fortune.”

“Well, that's what it says,” John replied.

Sherlock let the slip of paper drop to the floor and scooped up the crumbled pieces of cookie from the counter, tossing them into his mouth.

“No matter. You're about to watch television while you eat, are you not?”

“Yes,” John admitted. “I'm going to watch as much crap telly as possible.”

“Well, good,” Sherlock said. “The dishes will save me the agony of having to listen to it.”

 

After the soup, John found that he could barely keep his eyes open. Sherlock had long finished washing up, and even came in to fetch John's spoon and the empty soup container before settling down at the kitchen table to work on some experiment with his microscope.

A commercial came one. A trailer for one of those reality shows about survival on some deserted island...

_Heat._

_Blistering heat._

_The sound of waves._

_John blinked into the sun._

“ _This is all we have, John.”_

_He turned to face Sherlock, drawing in a sharp breath at the sight that met his eyes. Sherlock was without his jacket, his fine silk shirt torn to shreds. John felt dizzy, his eyes taking in the impossible brightness of his skin in the harsh sun, the curve of his muscles, every minute detail highlighted by a sheen of sweat._

_Sherlock held something out to him, and John blinked, looking down. It was a pink suitcase. He took hold of the handle, surprised at the considerable weight of the thing, and unzipped the main compartment. Two objects tumbled out. An unopened fortune cookie. A bottle of tanning oil._

“ _What's the fortune say?” Sherlock asked._

_Suddenly, the cookie was in John's hand, broken open. He pulled the piece of paper from the shell._

“ _Um...” This heat was already infernal enough, but John felt himself flushing with even more of it when he read the message._

“ _What's it say?” Sherlock prompted._

_John cleared his throat. “You will suck dick tonight. I don't make the rules.”_

_Sherlock laughed. “I don't make the rules?”_

“ _That's not a fortune,” John sputtered. The slip of paper caught fire, and he threw it to the sand, grinding it to ash with the toe of his shoe._

“ _I'm burning up,” Sherlock said, tearing off the remains of his shirt. “Help me with the tanning lotion.”_

“ _But,” John sputtered, looking away and scrabbling for the bottle. He glanced at the label. “This isn't even... It's tanning oil, Sherlock. SPF 5. It will barely-”_

“ _Just do it,” Sherlock drawled, turning his back to John and falling to his knees in the soft sand. “Start with my back.”_

_John sighed and moved over to stand awkwardly behind Sherlock. At first he tried to minimize contact as much as possible, his fingers dabbing gingerly at the skin on Sherlock's shoulders._

“ _John,” Sherlock murmured. “I need more.”_

_John squirted more oil onto his shoulder, and suddenly Sherlock's hand was covering his, guiding him over his shoulder, down his arm, across his chest, his nipples grazing against John's palm._

_John groaned, realizing he had fallen to his knees behind Sherlock._

“ _It's all fine, John,” Sherlock murmured._

_John leaned forward, his hand gliding down of its own volition now, pressing against Sherlock's stomach, his fingers digging into the muscle of his upper abdomen. Sherlock unbuttoned his trousers, and John let his hand follow the movement, sliding down...down..._

“ _Mmm, Sherlock...” His voice came out too loud. Too real._

 

John woke with a start, his neck aching from lolling on the back of the couch, sweat pouring down his face, running down his back, between his shoulder blades. Sherlock was staring at him from the kitchen. John sat up and stripped off his jumper as nonchalantly as possible, the dream sensation fading to an intense feeling of discomfort at being so overheated. He wished he could shed all of his clothes, but he was not the sort to wander around the house half-naked. Leave that to Sherlock.

_Sherlock!_

John glanced back at his flatmate, and yes, Sherlock was still staring at him, his microscope all but forgotten, one hand frozen above a petri dish, pipet held aloft, a tiny drop hovering at the tip. John cleared his throat, the sensation of the dream rushing back with unsettling ferocity.

_Did I actually...make noise? Of some sort?_

“John?” Sherlock asked, an incredulous look on his face. “Did you just have an erotic dream about me?”

John flinched, dropping his eyes to the coffee table and its pile of old newspapers. This was an odd turn. Sherlock should be horrified, shouldn't he? He should have left the room already, moving barely below the speed of sound, throwing some polite excuse over his shoulder...

_What do I say? WhatdoIsaywhatdoIsaywhatdoIsay-_

“Yes,” John said. “I mean, no! It was just a...regular dream. A flashback. From the pool.”

Sherlock put down the pipet, deliberately calm.

“And I'm fine,” John added defensively, his heart threatening to pop out of his chest. “I think I'll turn-”

“It's a perfectly natural biological response,” Sherlock interrupted, coming out from behind the kitchen table. “We spend a lot of time together in dangerous situations, and you are a person who likes that sort of...lifestyle. Who is attracted to dangerous people. It stands to reason that you might develop a sort of attraction for someone you might not find attractive under conventional circumstances.”

John stared at him, aghast. “You really have no idea?”

“What?”

John licked his lips and scooted forward on the couch, realizing with a shock that he had developed an absolutely raging erection, and at the same time Sherlock's eyes trailed down...then jumped back up to John's face, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.

“Right,” John stammered, feeling as if a door were about to close, perhaps permanently. “Look. I'm not gay, Sherlock.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“I'm bisexual,” John continued, earning a sharp look. “As in, I fancy a lot of different types of people.”

He paused, debating whether he should even continue. Perhaps it was his extreme state of arousal, or the late hour, or the lingering sensation of the dream that pushed him forward. At any rate, John Watson was feeling reckless. He stood up, pausing a moment to adjust himself in his jeans so that he wasn't standing so obscenely at attention. There was a growing look of alarm in Sherlock's eyes. John steeled himself and stepped around the coffee table, closing the distance between them.

“Most importantly, Sherlock,” he continued. “I fancy _you_. How have you not figured that out by now?” He realized he was being unfair, but that was 3-Continents Watson speaking, and once that part of himself got going, there wasn't much John could do but buckle up for the ride.

“Good night, John,” Sherlock said, his voice flat. He turned on his heel so quickly that John didn't even have a chance to blink before he disappeared down the hall. A moment later, he heard Sherlock's bedroom door close.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [finamour](http://archiveofourown.org/users/finamour/pseuds/finamour) for inventing the sexy fortune cookie phrase that featured in John's dream. I swore to her I would use it in my story! And go check out her S4 fix-it fic, too.


	2. May 2

The next morning, John woke extra late after a restless night of little sleep. Breakfast was a tasteless affair, and not long after washing up, he found himself wandering nervously about the flat, waiting for Sherlock to come out of his room.

After way too long of a time spent working himself up to a nervous frenzy, John forced himself to check his blog and answer the new comment that had popped up. Drinks with Bill Murray sounded just about right, actually. As a matter of fact, the sooner he had a change of pace from being around Sherlock all the time, the better.

That small bit of work accomplished, John looked at his watch and sighed. It was only 10:27 A.M. Just then, his mobile chimed, and his heart dropped into his stomach. He almost flung the thing across the room in his hurry to snatch it off the desktop, his fingers fumbling to unlock the screen.

It was a text from Harry.

_Day 35!_

John tossed the mobile back onto the desk, feeling slightly remorseful that he should be annoyed at his sister for something that had nothing to do with her. With an exasperated sigh, he shut the lid of his laptop. There was nothing else he could think to do but head to the surgery. It was Sarah's day off, and he could use the chance to catch up on that paperwork that never seemed to get done.

He nearly had a panic attack when he heard the bedroom door open, followed by the bathroom door closing. A few minutes later, Sherlock appeared in the hallway, not even glancing over as he donned his coat and popped the collar sharply.

“Can I borrow your phone?” he asked, his eyes meeting John's and then flitting away.

“What?” John stammered, his throat so dry that he could barely get a sound out. “Yeah, of course. What happened to yours?”

“It broke,” Sherlock said, taking John's proffered mobile and pocketing it. “I'm going to Bart's,” he added, disappearing down the stairs before John had a moment to process it.

And that was that. He stood, staring out into the hall. Sherlock was obviously still upset, and had nicked his mobile for whatever reason. John frowned, wishing he could reverse everything. The prospect of admitting his feelings for Sherlock had always terrified him, but he never thought the consequences would be this bad.

So, it was back to the original plan. Head to the surgery. He didn't need a mobile at work. If anything came up, there was the office phone.

 

* * *

 

Though he tried to stay focused on the paperwork, it was all John could do to keep himself from picking up the phone and trying to ring Sherlock. Instead, he refreshed his blog obsessively on his work computer, convinced that perhaps there would be a message there. This wasn't the first time Sherlock had gone to extremes to accomplish some obscure experiment. Perhaps his strange behavior wasn't about the confession, after all. Perhaps it was something else.

Around lunch time, a comment popped up from Harry.

_Shame. She seemed nice. Did you get my text this morning?_

John immediately felt guilty. He hadn't even bothered to answer her text.

_Yeah, sorry, Sherlock nicked my phone. Really proud of you. Please keep it up._

He typed the answer quickly, hitting post before giving himself much time to think about it. There, that was good. It sounded casual. Normal. Just another typical day at 221B Baker Street.

After another embarrassingly long stretch of trying to get some work done, John gave up. Sherlock Holmes was a bloody prat. A wanker. A posh git who had only tolerated him as long as he didn't presume to align himself with the detective as if they were equals. Nothing good could ever come of a dalliance with Sherlock Holmes. He should have known better. He left the surgery in a huff, barely even registering the cab ride home.

 

Back at the flat, John found his mobile sitting on the desk. He left it there and went to make a sandwich, noting that Sherlock's bedroom door was closed again. He had half a mind to go bang on the door and demand an apology for everything he had endured in his time as Sherlock's flatmate. But it was no use. His temper was already receding at the thought of confronting Sherlock, the anger being replaced by a cold, sharp fear that settled in his stomach and stole his appetite.

Just as John was despairing over the likely end of his association with Sherlock Holmes, he finally gave in to the temptation to check his blog again. He snatched his laptop off the desk and settled onto the couch.

A comment from Mike Stamford popped up.

_Sorry to hear that, John. Chin up!_

_  
_ Mike had always been such a jolly good sort of fellow. Gratingly so. John spent the next few minutes composing and deleting increasingly spiteful responses. With a sigh, he deleted the last, stunningly vitriolic response and exited the reply screen.

And there it was. A new comment from Sherlock.

_You never told me about Sarah._

John frowned and typed a response, his temper spiking again. So the bastard wasn't even deigning to speak to him directly anymore.

_You never even noticed I'd been to New Zealand._

  
He hit send, then made himself wait 5 minutes before refreshing the screen. Nothing.

“John?”

John nearly jumped out of his skin at the sound of Sherlock's voice. Sherlock was hovering at the entrance to the sitting room, an uncertain look on his face, shoulders slumped, hands shoved into his trouser pockets. He looked nothing like the haughty, spoiled prat of John's temper-fueled imaginings. Suddenly, he wasn't angry anymore. How could he be? All the pieces were falling into place in his mind. He'd clearly misjudged the entire situation.

“You thought I still had a girlfriend,” John said, a note of wonder in his voice. “When I, um, came on to you last night.” He put his laptop on the coffee table and gave Sherlock his full attention.

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and leaned against the doorjamb.

“Your behavior was incongruous with what I know of you thus far. I am not opposed to non-monogamous relationships, provided that all parties are aware of the arrangement. However, I was under the impression that you and Sarah had decided to be monogamous. I needed time to think.”

“You really thought I would cheat on Sarah?”

Sherlock frowned. “Of course not. That's why I was so confused.”

“Oh,” John said. “Well, maybe you should keep up with my blog. Might save your life one day.”

The joke fell flat, and they stared at each other, enduring the awkward moment. John resisted the urge to break into hysterical laughter. Where was their easy rapport now, when they most needed it? Sherlock was barely breathing. He looked as if he were carved out of stone. To laugh now...it could be disastrous.

John licked his lips nervously and Sherlock snapped out of his reverie, his eyes flashing down to catch the movement. He cleared his throat and began to fiddle with the top button of his shirt.

“Do you remember our first dinner at Angelo's?” Sherlock asked. “That night after we met?”

John could barely tear his eyes away, imagining Sherlock's long fingers unbuttoning the front of that shirt- _Get a hold of yourself, Watson!_

“Yes,” he replied, trying to keep his voice as level as possible.

“So you fancied me since then?” Sherlock was studiously avoiding his eyes now, his gaze floating out over the sitting room.

“What?” John crossed his arms, feeling strangely defensive. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because...” Sherlock met his eyes. “I don't want to mistake what this is.”

John's stomach dropped unpleasantly. “What do you mean?”

Sherlock huffed out an exasperated breath. “Well, there was Sarah. And those unnamed people before her that you came back smelling of some nights you went out.”

“Stop.” John's voice was solid steel. “I just- You turned me down, okay? That's why I went looking elsewhere. Because you turned me down.”

“I'd just met you,” Sherlock replied hotly.

“And for blokes like us, how exactly does that matter?” John snapped back. “It's true. I've fancied you since I first met you. I thought it was obvious, actually. Me faithfully trotting along behind you from day one. I felt like a fool, but I couldn't help myself.”

Instead of answering, Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed, and he gave a noncommittal hum.

“You're killing me, Sherlock,” John said, his voice taut. It took all of his willpower to stay seated on the couch, when the most comfortable course of action would be to sprint down the stairs and out the front door.

And then Sherlock closed the distance between them, coming to a stop just before colliding with the couch, his pale eyes soft and brooding. John stared up at him in alarm, his breath catching as Sherlock slowly got to his knees in front of him.

“Sherlock,” John began. “I didn't mean-”

“John,” Sherlock interrupted, his voice deep with regret. “I'm sorry that I ran away from you last night. That must have been horrible. To make a confession of that nature and then receive nothing in return.”

John could barely breathe. It seemed that Sherlock was full of surprises lately. He cleared his throat, forcing a slow breath through his nose before answering.

“I...um, it's all right. It was a spur of the moment decision. I'd never really planned to tell you.”

“Why?” Sherlock asked, his gaze intent.

“I didn't want to risk losing what we already have,” John replied, marveling at how easy it was to talk to him, now that they were so close.

Sherlock sighed, lowering his eyes. “Neither did I.”

It took John a moment to process this, and he realized he was staring at Sherlock's mouth.

“So, you-”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, shuffling forward so that his stomach was pressing against John's knees. He met John's eyes again, biting the edge of his lower lip, a flush rising high on his cheekbones.

John smiled ruefully. “God, you're gorgeous.” He reached out to trace the edge of Sherlock's jaw with the tips of his fingers, his eyes meeting Sherlock's, making sure this was still what he wanted. Sherlock tilted his chin up slightly, his eyes closing, and John leaned in, pressing several gentle kisses to Sherlock's lips – all light and soft, caressing the curves of his mouth, feeling the rough edges, coaxing his lower lip out from between his teeth.

With a soft sigh, Sherlock tilted his head to the side, pressing back against John's mouth, nipping at his lips. His hands slid up John's thighs as he scooted forward, pressing himself between John's legs. John reached up and threaded both hands through Sherlock's curls, cupping the back of his head in his palms. He felt Sherlock smile against his mouth, his long fingers eagerly gripping the fabric of his jumper.

Their kisses deepened, teeth clashing together, tongues twining hungrily. John moaned, a dizzying head rush derailing all thoughts unrelated to the moment. There was just the taste of Sherlock, like cigarettes and tea and some undefinable sweetness. The feel of his lips, plush and wet, his tongue fiercely sensual. His smooth, slightly greasy hair, tendrils catching John's fingers.

Now Sherlock's hands were traveling enthusiastically, digging into John's hips, sliding up along his back to his shoulders, jumping down to grip the tops of his thighs. John thought his heart might burst, it was hammering away so hard in his chest. Similarly, his cock was standing eagerly at attention, crying out to be touched. But there would be time enough for that.

John pulled away, panting. “Come up on the couch.” He gasped as the heel of Sherlock's palm rubbed mercilessly against his jeans. Sherlock's other hand dug into his hip.

“I want this,” Sherlock said, his fingers squeezing through John's jeans for emphasis. “In my mouth.” There was a wild look in his grey-blue eyes, and John shivered deliciously in response.

“Have you been tested recently?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Not recently, no. But I did get tested after my last...relapse. I received a clear bill of health. I haven't been physically intimate with anyone since well before that time.”

“I'm all clear, as well,” John said. “Just got tested after getting back from New Zealand.”

“I approve. Very efficient,” Sherlock drawled, his palm pressing against John's jeans again. “Blah, blah, blah. Let's get on with it, shall we?”

John grinned at the madman pinned between his legs. “As you wish, posh boy.”

“Posh boy?” Sherlock scoffed, long fingers deftly opening John's fly even as he glared up at him.

“Mmmm, afraid so,” John murmured. “Bossy. Rude. Demanding. Posh boy.”

“Lift,” Sherlock commanded, and John raised his hips. Sherlock tugged his jeans down just past his arse, then unceremoniously yanked the waistband of John's red pants to reveal just the top edge of tightly curling hair, pressing his mouth to the sensitive skin just above, tongue tracing the marks left behind by the elastic.

John shuddered, his cock still trapped underneath the fabric, and Sherlock shimmied the pants down partway, thumbs tracing the creases of John's groin. Sherlock leaned forward, nipping at John's inner thighs, his wild curls tickling the sensitive skin of John's cock.

John groaned as Sherlock's nose traced a pathway up to his cock, followed by his tongue. He took John in one fist, fingers lightly squeezing, and pressed his tongue to the slit, lapping up a bead of pre-come.

“That...feels...amazing...” John barely managed to get the words out before Sherlock winked at him and swallowed him to the hilt.

“Oh fuck!” John shouted, writhing with the sudden sensation. Sherlock's head was already bobbing up and down enthusiastically, the tight ring of his throat muscles popping over the edges of John's tip. It was too much. It had been too long. And it was _Sherlock,_ for Christ's sake.

“Oh god, please, let me...” John gasped, tilting his hips forward, his fingers tangling in Sherlock's curls. Sherlock gave a hum of approval and John began to thrust into his mouth, all sense of propriety thrown out the window.

He briefly considered slowing down, giving himself a chance to draw out the sensations, but Sherlock's fingers were digging into his hips, tugging insistently in rhythm with his thrusts. Pleasure pounded relentlessly through his body, gathering at the base of his aching cock, his balls tightening, until all of his focus was on the sliding slick of his erection moving in and out of Sherlock's mouth, lips stretched into a perfect O...

“Sherlock, Sherlock!” John shouted, sure he was being too loud. He was burning up, heat prickling on his upper lip, between his shoulder blades. Just then, Sherlock pressed up with his tongue and John's whole body tensed, a wave of pleasure crashing around him, a seemingly endless stream of come shooting down the back of Sherlock's throat.

A high-pitched whining sound floated into his consciousness. John realized with a shock that it was coming from him as he thrust reflexively against Sherlock's mouth, wringing every inch of pleasure out of the moment. Sherlock's chest was heaving as he finally drew back, purposefully dragging his lips over John's oversensitive skin. John moaned helplessly, collapsing back against the couch, and Sherlock released him with a pop, lips wet and flushed.

“Now will you come up here?” John asked, his body still deliciously limp. He tugged weakly at the collar of Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock leaned forward to kiss the strip of skin above John's spent cock. “Was it really that good?”

“You're supposed to be the most observant person on the planet. What do you think?” John shifted forward to strip off his jumper, his hands fumbling with the thick wool until Sherlock helped him.

“Oh, I think that was very good,” Sherlock replied smugly as he settled onto the couch. “Judging by the sounds you were making.”

John wasted no time, pushing Sherlock back along the couch and crawling on top of him so that they both gasped out little puffs of air at the impact, their mouths crashing together.

“Such a soldier,” Sherlock murmured gleefully against John's lips.

“And a doctor,” John reminded him. He straddled Sherlock's hips and sat up, grabbing the button edges of Sherlock's shirt, tearing it open with one swift tug. The buttons flew off with a flourish.

Sherlock's eyes flashed with a mixture of admiration and shock. “John! That was a bespoke-”

“I'll buy you another one,” John growled as he pushed the shirt open over Sherlock's shoulders. Much to his frustration, Sherlock had an undershirt on, too.

“Take this off,” John demanded, his fingers pulling the undershirt up across Sherlock's chest before Sherlock could even wiggle out of the shirtsleeves. He was all too eager to comply, half-rising so he could tug his arms out of the sleeves and toss the clothes over his shoulder.

“That's it,” John muttered, leaning down to let his breath ghost softly along Sherlock's neck, tracing his collarbone with his lips, biting and kissing here and there, one hand tugging on Sherlock's curls, the other sliding down to rub against the crease of Sherlock's inner groin, the side opposite of where his cock lay swollen and twitching.

“Tease,” Sherlock panted.

John paused, mouth hovering above one nipple, and Sherlock tilted his head slightly, his eyes wide in supplication. John smiled and kissed the edge of the areola, his hand cupping Sherlock's balls, palm rubbing firmly along the length his erection. Sherlock issued a wholly unrecognizable wail, his entire body arching.

“Hmmm...” John hummed briefly, sliding down to kiss Sherlock's stomach, biting the edges of skin ringing his navel, smirking at Sherlock's agonized moan. He unbuttoned Sherlock's trousers with one hand, the other one crawling casually back up to tease one nipple, then the other.

“If you don't mind...” John said, after the trousers were undone.

Sherlock obliged him, lifting his hips so that John could yank them off, revealing a tight pair of black pants.

“You look so good,” John said, pausing to stare. The sight of Sherlock's eyes, his mouth, his hair, all of it, hit him square in the chest with desire and a wild sort of joy. “I can barely control myself.”

“Prove it,” Sherlock replied, clearly doing his best to look bored.

John growled and dove on top of him, arms wrapping around him, kissing him roughly, thrusting his hips against Sherlock's with enthusiasm.

“Oh God, that feels good,” Sherlock gasped, his voice unsteady. He ran his hands underneath John's shirt, along bare skin, and tried to squeeze his fingers between their chests to get at the shirt buttons.

John grinned and raised himself up, granting access, and Sherlock made quick work of the buttons, pushing John's shirt open and rocking his hips up, seeking contact.

John slid away, Sherlock issuing a huff of frustration which quickly turned into a gasp as John deftly removed his pants, wiggling them down and all the way off. He paused a moment, admiring Sherlock's glistening erection, beads of pre-come already gathering at the tip. His hands traced back up Sherlock's thighs, palms pressing close against Sherlock's cock, but not quite touching it.

“Dear God,” John murmured, swooping down to rub his lips along Sherlock's length, which earned him an exultant sigh in response. John bobbed back down, licking firmly up Sherlock's cock this time, sucking his tip into his mouth in one smooth movement. Sherlock's legs squeezed together, his fingers digging into John's scalp as he began to moan in deep, breathy gasps. John hummed appreciatively, noting the rising pitch of his sounds with satisfaction, then swirled his tongue around his cock head before taking him deeper.

“Oh!” Sherlock shouted, his hips twitching. John slid his hands under Sherlock's bum, spreading his arsecheeks as his tongue caressed the underside of his cock, earning another garbled moan. Sherlock began to thrust erratically, and John tightened his lips around him, sliding his hands out to grip Sherlock's hips, riding it out.

“Argh! Wait, wait!” Sherlock cried out. His hips stuttered to a halt and he pushed John back.

“What?” John asked, as Sherlock's cock flopped out of his mouth with a wet smack. He licked his lips, an amused look on his face. “That wasn't good enough for you?” He expected a tart response, a cutting word or two, but Sherlock just looked soft and contrite, a pleading look in his eyes.

“No, John. That was...incredible. I'm sorry, I just-” Sherlock's hands slid down to John's hips, tugging up, his brow furrowing.

“Hey, none of that,” John breathed gently. He raised himself up, pressing his lips to Sherlock's forehead until it smoothed out again.

“ _This_ is how I want you this time,” Sherlock muttered, pulling down on John's hips insistently.

“Oh, I see,” John smiled, a sweet flutter rising in his chest. “Well, help me get rid of these clothes, then.”

Sherlock gave him the briefest of smitten looks before obliging him, and John sighed happily as his legs came free of the denim and red pants. He pressed a knee gently between Sherlock's legs, surprised to find that his cock was already half-hard in response to Sherlock's erection.

He lowered himself more gently this time, pressing their hips together as he nuzzled his nose into the soft flesh underneath Sherlock's chin. They both shuddered at the full-body contact, skin against skin, cocks lining up.

“Is this what you want?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, tilting his hips, his hands cupping John's arse, gently at first, but then his fingers dug in. “Just like this.”

John lifted his head. He'd never seen Sherlock quite this...vulnerable. It made his breath catch in his throat as he began to rut against him, his reward not just the pleasure he felt, but the tiny smile that bloomed on Sherlock's lips. The way his eyes sparkled, tilting up at the corners.

“John,” Sherlock breathed. “You're hard again. So soon. I'm impressed. Though I shouldn't be surprised. You are a man of remarkable talents.”

John chuckled. “It's the Sherlock Holmes effect.”

He pressed his thigh more firmly against Sherlock's balls, thrusting harder, and Sherlock moaned, his eyes nearly rolling back in his head. He could feel Sherlock's stomach muscles tightening, see a flush rising to his pale chest and neck, his eyes glazing over with a far-off look before he closed them, giving himself over to the moment. John resisted the urge to kiss Sherlock's eyelids, not wanting to break the rhythm, but it was never going to be enough like this.

“Sherlock, lend us a hand,” he gasped, groaning as Sherlock spit into his hand then snaked it between them, squeezing their cocks together, saliva, sweat, and pre-come slicking his long fingers as he wrapped them both in his fist.

“Oh God,” John gasped. “You're fucking amazing.” He could feel his orgasm simmering in the distance, slower to rise in the aftermath of his first, toe-curling experience, but at the sight of Sherlock's open mouth, teeth flashing as he bit his lower lip again, a fresh wave of arousal charged directly to John's erection, hardening him more than he even thought possible. He moaned, loud and long, dropping his forehead onto Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock was beyond words, small, deep-throated groans issuing from his mouth, punctuated by occasional whimpers, his body twitching. In a surge of passion, John dug his fingers into his curls and yanked his head to the side, biting his neck.

“Ohhhh!” Sherlock came with a shout, his hips bucking, his hand jerking reflexively, fist tightening. At that, John's orgasm crashed around him, long and hard, wringing out every cell in his body, flattening him against Sherlock's chest, the air rushing in and out of his lungs as if he'd just sprinted a race. They lay still for a long moment, the stunned silence of the flat pressing against John's ears as soon as his heart rate dropped back to normal.

“Mmmphf,” Sherlock moaned. He slid his hand out from between them, long lines of come dripping from his fingers. "John.” He pressed a kiss to John's hair, his other hand abandoning its post on John's arse and wrapping tightly around his waist.

“Fuck me,” John whispered, his voice shaky.

“I believe I just did,” Sherlock murmured. “Twice.”

John snorted. “You ridiculous man.”

“I'm not the one that had an erotic dream about my flatmate while he was in the same room.”

“Hey!” John pushed off of Sherlock, catching himself before he fell off the couch. “I told you it wasn't-”

“You'll tell me what it was about?” Sherlock asked, his lips curling mischievously.

John attempted a fierce glare but couldn't manage it, succumbing to a foolish grin, instead.

“I'll think about it.” He stood up with a grunt. “I'm going to clean up a bit. Do you need me to bring you anything?”

“No, I'm going to take a shower,” Sherlock replied, sitting up with a grimace. “Perhaps we use the bed next time?”

John beamed at him, his heart skipping a beat as Sherlock followed him down the hall, one hand lightly brushing against his injured shoulder. Once in the bathroom, Sherlock pressed John against the door, tonguing the scar on his shoulder with brief intensity before planting a bruising kiss on his lips.

“I'll be out in a few minutes,” he rumbled, his breath hot against John's mouth before he whirled away and stepped into the shower.

John leaned against the door heavily.

“The things you do to me,” he whispered.

Sherlock winked at him and tugged the shower curtain closed, the small space quickly filling with steam as he predictably cranked the hot water.

It took a moment for John to convince himself that he wouldn't collapse if he moved away from the door. He wiped himself down with a wet washcloth from the sink, then wandered back out to the sitting room to retrieve his pants and shirt before settling down on the couch to wait.

 


	3. Afterglow

John wasn't keeping track, but it did seem as if Sherlock was gone for longer than a few minutes. He grabbed the TV remote from the table, his laptop catching his eye. He tapped on the mouse pad to bring up the screen, mostly out of habit, and paused at the sight on a new notification on his blog. It was a comment from Sherlock.

_I went shopping earlier. There's some cans of beer in the fridge. Next to the feet._

John laughed. “Sherlock! Going shopping once isn't reason enough to brag about it on my blog.”

Sherlock emerged from the hallway in his dressing gown, his hair slick with water, a self-satisfied look on his face.

“That's a good thing, isn't it?” he asked. “The beer?” He settled down on the couch so close to John that he was practically sitting in his lap.

John leaned forward and typed a quick response.

_:)_

Sherlock peered at it. “How precious.”

“You're the one that started it with the smiley faces.”

“Well, at least mine have bullet holes for eyes,” Sherlock scoffed, as he draped an arm around John's shoulders.

John rolled his eyes. “Yet another reason my life with you is incompatible with long-term relationships.”

“And how is that a bad thing?” Sherlock asked indignantly.

“It's not, you mad berk,” John said, turning to capture Sherlock's mouth with his own.

 

**Author's Note:**

> And that's all, folks! For now, at least.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading! I hope you enjoyed reading this story as much as I enjoyed writing it.
> 
> Stay tuned for more fics. I've got a whole slew of ideas slated for production in the near future.
> 
> Until next time...


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